Goodbye, I Love You
by Gurubiness
Summary: KuramaXHiei Kurama collects thoughts when driving home in a rainstorm. A small velvet box sits in the centre console. But is it safe to talk on a cell phone while driving on a curving mountain road while it's raining? A white light flashes.


"When are you coming home?"

"Right now; I'm on my way."

"I miss you."

"I'll be over there soon. Talk to you when I get there, okay?"

"All right. I love you."

"I love you, too. Bye."

The rain pelted the windshield, the noisy pitter-patter drowning out the radio. The car's engine hummed loudly against the hood, creating more noise. Water splashed noisily from under the fast moving tires, shooting off to the side. Cars zoomed by, mimicking the din of his own automobile. A low beeping came from the cell phone in the centre console, alerting him that he had seven voice-mail messages from his worried lover.

His head hurt. There was a quiet but constant alarm going off inside his mind, throbbing pain, buzz-buzz-buzz. The noise. All the noise. He took his left hand from the steering wheel, and cranked the radio in a feeble attempt to drown out the humming, the splashing, the zooming, the alarm, the prattle of the world around him. Pianos pounded through the speakers, the deep, velvety voice of a female alto rising over the rhythmic beat. The melody was catchy, fast, with a grim, pensive vibe to it; listening to the lyrics would send one into a tumult of thoughts; they were that deep, that touching, with a paradoxical, ironic metaphor on every line in each stanza. She'd rise and fall, from hissing whispers, to grimly exultant shouts, sweet and sour all at once, though she would sing, of course, in that soft, smooth voice that was so utterly addicting. The whole feel of each song was what would be referred to in modern days such as now as "gothic." But no matter. He liked it immensely.

Street lights passed over head, one by one, in a moving pattern. He was driving with one hand, his left hand fiddling with the radio. He ejected the CD, placed it on the centre console, and pulled down his sun visor. On the visor was a display of compact discs, held in place in a black CD arrangement pouch. He stuck the CD in its proper place, all of his compact discs being neatly alphabetized. His lover would tease him, in that bitter, sardonic sense of humour, with that deep, stabbing voice, dripping with dark sarcasm, claiming that he had obsessive compulsive disorder.

He had written off their love as unbreakable. In the console to his left, sat a box. It was a small, velvet box, with soft cushioning inside of it, and below the cushioning was cotton. But there was a slit in the thin, minute pillow. And in that slit sat a small, golden ring; it was nothing special, no ornate patterns or flashy jewels; but it was _very _special to him. A small golden ring, thick, size 6. Yes, of course. This was the night. He was currently driving home to give away that ring, in a sappy, on-one-knee, dramatized way.

The CD player ate the disc he stuck in, and a low hum came from it as it recognized the data. The windshield wipers were squeaking as they beat off the rain droplets that danced on his window. He gassed the car a bit more, turning the wheel and passing a small Toyota speedily. Water splashed off to the left side as he got back into the appropriate lane.

Hurry home. Of course. No matter that it's raining. It was only a drizzle, anyway. He sped down the road, passing cars, and weaving through the traffic; he must have been going ten or fifteen miles over the speed limit. He could feel the car moving below him, feel the acceleration; he felt the tension of imminent ecstasy below his foot, as he pressed on the gas petal harder and harder. Sixty-three miles per hour. Vroom-vroom. He wanted to get home. Come home to that small form, sunken back in a chair in the shadows, the dim glow of the television illuminating such a lovely face. He wanted to see the scowl, the 'where on God's green Earth have you been' glowering, the loving, but irked glare, still holding a sliver of the previous worry. And the voice. O, the voice! He wanted to hear the voice, as taunting and bitter as it may be; he knew that the reason for the bitterness was love. Why, of course it was! Why else would he be driving this car, and breathing this air, if the core of it all in his lover was not adoration? Certainly he would be dead, had his lover not adored him.

The streetlights were getting fewer and fewer as he came out of the city. In the darkness, he groped with the controls, quickly turning his high-beams on. The CD player groaned as it switched tracks. Fewer cars were on the road now; there were never many cars on this road. In the day time, he would look about him cautiously, appreciating the mountain view; the high grass, amber of colour, the mountain side sliding up above him. He would sometimes roll down the windows and open the sunroof so that he could smell the air. He loved it, though his lover couldn't say much of the same. Yes, his lover would go places with him, put up with him, but never without calling him a 'nerd' or a 'tree-huggin' hippie.' Of course his lover's sense of humour was much sharper than that, but he didn't goad him and insult him as much as he did others. A fond memory surfaced, as he drove, thinking of his lover's diatribe.

They had gone to a mountain path, once, only a few years ago. He must have been about twenty; though he, above all, didn't even know his lover's age. Very old, he assumed. They had walked along the dirt path, each with their hands shoved into their pants' pockets. On the walk, his lover had been teasing him, with the hippie remarks again, and he had decided to tease him right back, which he had not done often. His lover fell silent and glared daggers at him. Because it was awkward, he fell silent as well. They walked side by side, he looking above him, below him, to the side where there was no one beside him. His lover, on the other hand, looked straight ahead. He removed his hand from his pocket, and tussled his own hair a bit. They were nearing the end of the path, and from where they were they could see an old man at a homemade booth with some kind of deep fryer. They both continued down the path to the old man; he left his lover's side and went up to the old man out of curiosity. His lover sat down annoyed, legs crossed, on a stone bench on the other side of the trail. He had come back to his lover and sat beside him with a plate of deep-fried maple leaves, covered in honey. The fresh mountain air surrounded them as he alone ate some of the leaves (though he had offered some to his lover); he observed in awkward bliss the towering maple trees above, their red atop the blue of the skies, white clouds shifting behind them. It was a beautiful day. He stopped eating, glancing to his lover next to him, who continued to not look at him. Sighing, he took his free hand, and grabbed the open hand of his lover, whose eyes shot to him in surprise. With the other hand, he took a maple leaf from the plate and shoved it into his lover's mouth. They laughed, and continued doing this until there were no more leaves on the plate.

Good times, good times. Better times come now.

The phone rang in the centre console. Eighth time that night; maybe we can beat the record, this time. The most his lover had ever called was eight times, because he was always home by the ninth. He opened the centre console and flipped open the phone.

"Where are you?"

"On my way. I promise I'll be there soon."

Silence. He heard the low hum of another engine as he sped up; faster, faster! The rain was worse now than it had been all night. His wipers were no longer squeaking, and were moving side-to-side at a rapid pace to keep the window clear. There were no more streetlights now.

"Please come home. I…"

Head lights, high-beams. Much bigger than his. Though, he didn't notice this. Love is very distracting.

"You what?"

"I need you."

He sped up, involuntarily. He shut his eyes and smiled, without realizing he'd done it.

"I'm coming. I swear."

A horn sounded. Long, loud. He could see the headlights through his still closed eyelids. His lover said nothing.

"Goodbye, I love you." His voice was very loud in his head. The alarm was loud now, the CD had stopped, and the horn was still sounding, though it was a faint memory. The phone hung itself up.

He opened his eyes. Now he could feel the tension of the car's front end, smashing into itself, closing up. It reminded him of when he was in grade school, and would make a mistake on an essay, and crumple the paper up into a ball. He heard metal break and crunch. He heard tires screeching. He heard scratching and more crunching. Though his eyes were open, he was too afraid to look, therefore seeing nothing. But he knew what was happening. He was rolling down the mountain, wasn't he? Over the barrier that he'd broken.

He could feel the sharp cuts on his neck, arms, forehead from the broken windshield and windows to his sides. He felt the brush scratch him through the broken windows. There's a river down there, which he knew of. He and his lover had walked through it, splashing each other.

Flash of white light in the dark.

Baby--red hair. Child, on a stool; the fall was great. He saw the blood rushing from his mother's cut up arms, shattered glass plate around her. The smile… He hated it. It made him sad. He saw a man with silver hair, clad in white, running through a bamboo thicket, fast. A golden mirror was under his arm, and his gold-coloured eyes, full of malice and victory, twinkled in the moonlight; it's me, isn't it… He saw a boy, black hair, slicked back with too much hair gel; that cocky smile. He felt the cold of a sword made of pure ice pierce directly through his stomach; saw the alarmed look of the ice master whose sword was in his gut as a plant went through his stomach. He saw the happy smile of a tall, broad-set boy with curly red hair, a small girl at his side, wearing a blue kimono, with ice blue hair; she was smiling too. The same happy smile the boy was smiling, full of joy, and fun, and love. He remembered the vibe of that situation. He remembered a small hatred burning inside of him, envy; how come no one loves me? He felt the warm hand of his lover on his back then. "Baka no kitsune." I love you, I love you! Why don't you love me back?

He was crying as the roof hit his head.

White light.

He felt the pain. Bombs went off around him. I'm not a masochist! You're crazy! The smile that the man, thick, curling blonde hair, made him sick; he smiled a lustful, sadistic smile, as he watched him hurt, possibly die. But he didn't die. He remembered the man, the silver one with the tail and ears and golden eyes of malice, killing the man with the blonde hair; but his hair was black then. He saw him die! So why did he come back to try to kill him? It didn't much matter now. He killed him in the end.

His neck hurt. Everything hurt. His foot was still on the gas petal. He could still move, amazingly. The centre console sat open, twigs and leaves inside of it. Through them, he found the box with the ring. I love you! Can't you hear me! I love you! He wanted so bad to give it to his lover. Then we'd be to-gether for eternity! Immortal love, just like us.

White flash.

He saw his friends. The boy with the black hair, the carrot-top with his petite ice maiden. Pink kimono, blue hair; such a nice smile. I wish I was as happy as she always is. I'm not happy. I want to be happy. A girl with brown hair ran up to the cocky brunette. The embraced. Someone love me! Hand on his shoulder; he spun around, and looked down into the crimson eyes of his future lover. Black bangs shadowed those big orbs. He saw a red-haired oni fly through the black skies of the Makai. He saw his friends happy, with a man with a Mohawk, a silent samurai, the oni, the ice master who'd pierced him, a tall blonde… even a small child. I want to be there. He sat alone in a corner. "Baka no kitsune." Back again? He threw his arm over his lover's shoulder. They walked off to-gether.

He broke his arm. His shoulder had a sharp pain in it. And he could feel the blood running slowly down the brim of his nose and over his eyebrows from a gash in his forehead. He squinted his eyes shut and felt the blood gush onto his eyelids.

His friend's face. Six ears, three on each side, all pointed. Horns. Such a pale, patient face; content. His eyes were shut. He was looking at him, even though he couldn't see him because he was blind. It made him feel a little uncomfortable. He had left. He saw a necklace flying at him. An icy blue pearl was attached to a hook, and was the charm; a gem made of tears. "Sorry. I can't accept this." That was one of the rare occasions when he'd joked during a serious situation. What if his lover had said the same thing to him when he was giving him the ring in his hand right now? Said the same line that he had jokingly said in a staid situation so many years ago; said it back to him, mocking him. But what if he had actually meant it?

He felt hot blood run out his ear.

The light that flashed its pearliness at him was fading each time.

He saw his lover and he on the mountain path, in the red maple tree forest. He saw them in bed, his lover's small naked form sweating against the stark white sheets. He saw himself get into the car, kiss his lover's forehead; that was only a few hours ago.

He saw the CD pop out. He saw the headlights.

He'd seen the headlights! Why didn't he veer? …He did. And that's why he was rolling down this hill.

The white light pulsed dimly.

There was nothing else to see. He saw the blood against his eyelids, a faint light coming from the headlight that still worked. He was still rolling. It had happened faster than he thought it was. Everything had slowed down. His shoulder was in so much pain; it made him want to cry. His knee was sprained from hitting under the dashboard with such force when the car turned over and over. His wrist was broken from hitting the door. But most of all his head hurt. He still heard the horn; he heard the trees breaking, and the CD player hissing. He heard the alarm inside his head, the crunching of his car rolling, the breaking of his windows. He heard the ripping of his clothes. He heard the blood running out of his body. He heard everything. He heard his memories. Everyone's voices were calling his name. He saw his mentor, his friend. She was so young and beautiful again, just like she had been during that one battle with the reclusive samurai. Her arms were open. Someone to love me. He ran towards her.

Freezing water soaked through his socks, his shoes. The bottoms of his pant legs were wet. The water came up to his knees. Then to his midriff. It was rushing, washing the blood off. The cold felt nice. A white light flashed again.

He managed to whisper something as he clutched on tenaciously to the velvet box in his hand. The last words that he had spoken.

"Goodbye, I love you…" It hurt him to talk. The car was knocked over once more. He fell over the centre console onto the passenger's side. Water pervaded his lungs. A white light flashed and he saw everything in his life flash before him rapidly, every second. He couldn't even stop it to reminisce. The memories just went by, too fast for recognition or recollection.

He gripped the box, his knuckles turned white. Love me. Someone…

1…2…3…4…5…6…7…8…

The cell phone rang.

…9…

"Sir, please. Can you just give me the documents?"

Hiei cried, clutching a manila folder close to his chest. He dashed away into the trees. From his pocket, he removed a small velvet box; a ring was inside it. Plain, golden, size six; his size.

"'Goodbye, I love you…!'" he mocked through his tears. He scoffed at the memory. "Baka no kitsune…" He choked back more tears, trying to stop weeping. "Kurama, you ass… I love you. You fucking ass." He clenched the box in his hands, his knuckles turning white; he could feel his jaw set. He suddenly realized he was grinding his teeth.

"Hiei?" Yuusuke looked up into the tree. The fire demon shot down a fierce glance through his bloodshot, wet and slightly puffed eyes.

"HN…!"

"The wake is beginning shortly." Yuusuke continued. Hiei glared at him for a moment, and then flitted off. He didn't attend the wake.

"Goodbye, I love you." Hiei said as he dashed over the trees, away from the happy home he and Kurama had shared. He was quoting his last words again. In the folder full of documents and few pictures, a photograph of Kurama with his arm around Hiei—taken in a photo-booth—floated to the ground. It landed in a river below a mountain. A noisy road, curving, was above it. Construction workers were fixing a broken metal barrier on the side of the road.

_**((Fin))**_

(This was longer than I expected, and took a while to write. Hope you liked it! Please review.)


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